Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,308

had been full upon their arrival at Acre and half of it was still visible, casting a soft glow upon the cresting waves as they rolled shoreward. The harbor of Jaffa was an anchorage on the northwestern side of the castle, sheltered by reefs, and it was not yet dawn when they saw the silhouette of the most famous one, Andromeda’s Rock. It was Saturday, the first of August, four days since the Saracens had launched their surprise attack upon the city.

They anchored just north of the harbor and began the tense vigil until sunrise. Jaffa was divided into a lower town, the faubourg, and the citadel, located on higher ground to the southwest. From their galleys, they could not see the landward side, which would have borne the brunt of the Saracen assault, and so they could not tell if the walls were still intact. The city remained shrouded in shadows, giving up none of its secrets.

They had only three galleys at first, but by the time the horizon finally began to lighten off to the east, four more had straggled in. Dawn in the Holy Land was usually resplendent, the sky splashed with molten gold as the sun began its celestial arc. This morning the men had eyes only for the looming walls of Jaffa. As the dark retreated, they squinted until the banners flying above the city slowly came into focus—streaming in the wind, the bright saffron colors of Salah al-Dīn.

A muffled sound swept the decks of the galleys, a groan torn from multiple throats as they understood what they were seeing. Some cursed, most stared in stricken silence. Richard had been standing motionless in the prow of his galley, scarcely breathing as he awaited the moment of truth. When it came, he let out a hoarse cry. “We’re too late!” He slammed his fist down upon the gunwale, again and again. “Too late!”

His men had never seen him so anguished and did not know what to do. Only André moved, stepping forward to catch his wrist before he could strike again. “Not your sword hand,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “You did all you could, Richard, all any man could do.”

Richard saw nothing but those swirling golden banners. “Tell that to the dead of Jaffa.”

AS THE SUN ROSE in the sky, they could see the tents of the Saracen army. Their little fleet was soon noticed and men on the beach began to jeer and shout, waving weapons, a few aiming arrows although they could penetrate armor only at close range. But most of them seemed unconcerned by the appearance of the enemy ships. Jubilant cries of “Allahu Akbar!” wafted across the water to the miserable men in the galleys. Even if Richard had not seen the sultan’s banners, he’d have known the town had fallen, for theirs was the swagger of the victorious.

Some of his knights felt a shamed sense of relief that they’d arrived too late, for few operations were as dangerous as a sea landing in enemy territory. It was true Richard had managed it in Cyprus, but then they’d been confronted by the incompetent, hated Isaac Comnenus and his poorly trained routiers. Here at Jaffa, they faced the tough, battle-proven troops of Saladin, the victor of Ḥaṭṭīn. So there were men in the galleys who felt they’d been reprieved, even as they grieved for their slain brethren. By nine, the third hour of the day, their ships numbered fifteen, yet it was obvious to them all that they were still greatly outnumbered. They did not fear for their safety as long as they stayed offshore; Richard had controlled the sea since his seizure of Saladin’s fleet at Acre. It was not easy, though, to look upon their triumphant enemy, strutting along the beach, their laughter echoing on the wind, all the while knowing what horrors were hidden by the town walls, and many of them wished that Richard would give the order to depart.

Richard had not moved for hours, unable to tear his gaze from the crowded beach and those banners flying proudly over the captured city. He seemed to see everything on a battlefield and had soon noticed that no flags flew over the castle itself. That wan hope quickly ebbed, for there was no sign of life, no indication that the citadel still resisted. Jaffa had held about four thousand souls, many of them convalescing soldiers, as well as the inevitable noncombatants caught up in siege warfare—merchants, priests, women,